


Once Upon a Tear Drop...

by BrokenBeyondRepair



Category: Lord of the Rings RPF, The Hobbit - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Multi, Other
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-12-24
Updated: 2015-03-27
Packaged: 2018-03-03 04:23:06
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,894
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2837822
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BrokenBeyondRepair/pseuds/BrokenBeyondRepair
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A creature is found in Mirkwood. One that appears to be a human, a girl so young and innocent. Yet her body was broken an beaten when found, and her back has a pattern of silver-white patters that bring wings to her back, wings that spring out in a blink of an eye seemingly out of the spine. Wings as pure as snow. She cannot be human, the magic is too strong about her, her eyes too wise with knowledge of painful past. What happens when Lord Thranduil finds her? The curiosity of the elven-Lord, when heated, knows no limits.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. In the dell....

She was found just in time. Another hour would have surely meant death for the curled up child, laying in the opening. The girl wasn’t responding when she was picked up, but her heart has not stopped, the rise and fall of her chest has not yet frozen. The will to live was stronger than death.

 

* * *

 

 

Lord of Mirkwood Thranduil did not allow himself such leave even in the most tiresome of times. Yet today nature was calling the elf-lord, and with a small group of accompanying elves he left the halls of his palace, riding Fidellius the elven-elk.

This day was for the King to think, think alone with himself, and with the forces of nature. He commanded his accompaniers to ride forth, and let Fidellius slow to a walk as he pondered in thought. His mind was uneasy with memories of not far off past. The loss of the Battle of the Five Armies was too great to be forgotten in a decade, and the fact that he has not seen his only son and heir to the throne Legolas since the end of war, has bothered him greatly. Pushing dark thoughts away, a small hint of a smile played across the noble elves’ lips. It was a beautiful day indeed, although he still wondered what of all things has called him out here.

His head snapped with attention slightly to the left, his hair drifting to the wind around him as his chiseled ears picked up a soft sound of approachment. He relaxed. It was the sound of hooves, and perhaps it was the sound of his company returning with some news they deemed important for the king. He was not mistakened. One of the elves of his company, young Rhovandir was riding towards him with a look of worry etched in his features.

 

“My Lord Thranduil…” he approached, as if not sure how to word what was on his mind. “There is something strange upon a clearing just South of here. I, I do not know how to explain it.”

 

A crease appeared between the dark brows of the Elven-King. This time was not meant for worry, yet troublesome things seemed to always find a way of reaching him.

 

“Do try” he said dryily.

 

Rhovandir made a move to try to explain, but hesitated once more.

 

“I dare not try. Lord Thranduil must come himself, for my eyes seemed to be lying to my senses at the strange place.” the young elf waited for his Kings’ reply, prepared to lead the way.

 

Thranduil expected no other answer. Rhandir was a clever elf, and if something confused him then it would be something quite serious. Otherwise he would dare not bother the King. He spoke one word as he pressed heel into Fidellius’s side, easing him forward:

 

“Lead.”

 

* * *

 

The place was strange. Strange and full of magic. _So_ strange that even one so powerful and wise as Thranduil could not tell if the magic was white and pure….or dark and evil.

It was not quite a clearing. Seemingly perfect circle formed by the trees, with just one pathway into the growth-clear centre. Thranduil dismounted with the grace of a king, his robes billowing, not a single blade of grass bothered by his movement,, walking towards the pathway. The magic felt strong and unfamiliar to him, the electricity feeling almost tangible in the air.. It was not the calming magic of the elves, not the dark magic of the foul creatures that serve the darkness, nor the bold magic of wizards. It was incredibly powerful, yet at the same time so vague and distant...like a far away sound of a great waterfall, or the gentle music of a distant flute.

Thranduil neared the pathway, raising a single eyebrow at the elf near the ‘entrance’ to the clearing. The silent question asked for reports, and those were given:

 

“My Lord Thranduil, we could not go in. Not a single one, we’ve all been stopped by some force. But there is something….someone, my Lord, in the glade.” a single nod, and the elf was silent.

 

With his fingers gently brushing the hilt of his sword Thranduil stepped in. The feeling was most strange, as if he stepped through a sheet of water, not hearing the horses or his company behind him any more. His piercing gray eyes swept the glade, taking a moment to adjust to the pattern of rare light occasionally fighting through the leaves.

The perfect circle of the small dell was thickly surrounded with trees, so tightly interwoven than the only sunlight came through the branches in the very centre of the clearing, where the leaves weren't so thick. The grass of the glade was dry, blackened as if by a fire, scorched everywhere. Everywhere but one spot.

In the spotlight of dancing sunlight lay a creature  the like of which Thranduil has never seen before. The barely-felt breeze touched and moved the fathers of pure-white wings ever-so slightly. No bigger that an elf curled up, the only part open to Thranduil’s searching eyes were the wings, presumably covering the body, to the likeness of doves in the harsh of winters’ cold. The only green, bright-green and fresh grass of the dell appeared to be growing under the creature, the long blades surrounding the seemingly still wings with a crown of emerald.

“An eagle?...” Lord Thranduil more thought these words than said them aloud, for he knew that the idea was less than possible. The creature, whatever it was, was too small to be even a newborn of the Eagles of Manwë, it’s wings too pure of white.

The sensation of unknown power seared through him again as his hand touched the soft feathers. The creature did not feel dangerous to him, rather a feeling of a cornered, dying animal was radiating off it. Yet Thranduil knew that the Greenwood did not become Mirkwood without reason. Gently, with one hand resting on the hilt of his sword, he slowly moved first one wing, then the other slightly apart. The dome formed by them over the fragile body was broken, the sunlight breaking in.

  
  
  
  



	2. A Feather of a Puzzle

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A short chapter. Things will heat up a tid bit later on.

The sigh opened to the King’s eyes was transfixing. Thranduil did not gasp in shock or fear, yet the elven lord hold his breath for a second. Hiding under it’s wings was a child, a girl. A seemingly human girl, or what has become of her. Her body was pale, and fragile, like toy dolls made by the most skilfull hands in the deepest workmines of Erebor.

Thin hands with almost translucent skin and long fingers were pressed to her chest, her legs pulled up with the knees buried in her stomach. A torn tunica of rough wool, and her dark wine-red hair was all that was covering her nakedness, her feet bare. But it was not the sight of that pulled Thranduil’s eyes. Her marble skin was caked with blood, blue and black with bruises, rough around the scabs. A wound that would have killed any human was on her tummy, a long, deep cut run over her neck.  

 

_If she survived such pains and injuries, how did she not crawl away from here?_

 

Thranduil's brow was furrowed as he gently moved a strand of the child’s hair that was covering her wrists. Thin ropes of metal were cutting into them, red welts swollen as evidence of struggle. A glance of her feet showed Thranduil that the girl’s ankles were also bound.

 

_She was left here to die._

The thought echoed like a sentence in Thranduil's mind. Someone has tied up this youngling of a creature, condemning it to slow death. With a starting realization elven King glanced around the glade once more. The grass was blacked, the branches of willow trees pulled in closer to the middle. No sunlight or greenth anywhere but beside the girl.

 

_The little one survived off nature. She had to pull life out of greenth to keep herself alive._

 

His hand gently lifted her arms, a sharp dagger cutting through her bounds. Although made of metal, the material was no match for elven-forged weapons. The creature made no move, her breathing skipped no beat. With the same gentleness Lord Thranduil freed her feet, pulling all his strength of ancient elf-magic to push the pain away from the girl. As the healing charm enveloped the child Thranduil felt a small tremor of her fragile frame under his fingers.

Putting the dagger into it’s heath he slid one of his arms under the girls’ knees, the other going around her shoulders and supporting her neck. Soft feathers brushed his skin, a pleasant sensation in the sea of horror. His brow furrowed only for a slight moment when a thought of his robes stained by blood and dirt crossed his mind. A look of grave concern was dominating the elven-Kings features.

 

* * *

 

 

Loud chatter rose as soon as Lord Thranduil entered the gale. The company of elves accompanying him could not comprehend why they could not enter, could not seek what was beyond the invisible barrier.

Words flew around, words of dark magic, evil, and in slight, scared whispers “necromancer”. A barely noticeable irony taste of fear settled.

 

Time passed.

 

* * *

"My Lord Thranduil is back!” greeting of welcome sounded from servants and guardians of the gate as Thranduil reentered his realm.

Yet the joyful shouts were cut short as silence settled around the King. His face was serious and troubled, pained and concerned. Thoughtful. All eye were drawn to what, or better yet whom he was holding, bridal-style in his hands.

All that could be seen was a mop of burgundy curls, tangled and dirtied. Nymphs and stray elves and even occasional humans were not a rare sight in the realms of the Mirkwood King. The elves of the forest have become more welcoming and joyous after the terror of war. This, however, would be the first time that the antechamber would have witnessed that the being in need of help was brought in by the King himself.

Gelinnasson Silverglade stepped forward. He was a young elf, a personal servant to the King himself. Thranduil trusted him well, for Gelinnasson, or Gelinn for short, despite being so young has proved himself a worthy soldier, and a wise advisor.

“My Lord, have you come upon a creature in need of help? Is it hurt?” he took another step forward, putting out his arms to relieve his king of the burden.

Thranduil settled the girl carefully into Gelinn’s arms. A gasp of shock  rolled around the chamber as peaks and glances were stolen at the little body, the gashes and wounds, the bruises and the cuts.  Thranduil looked upon the girl with a look of soft anguish. Such innocence of youth was so brutally hurt. His fingers, rough in battle, but gentle and careful now, caressed the cheek, careful of bruises and cuts.

 

“A human youngling?” Gelinn looked at his king in question, the healers of the elves already rushing in.

 

Thranduil was just about to appose, to say that no human bore wings so white (to be more precise humans bore no wings of any kinds). He was surprised the Gelinn of all would ask. Surprised until he look down onto the little body being lowered onto stretchers.

 

The girls' wings were gone.

 

 


End file.
